A Letter to Snape
by zan189
Summary: What's it about? The title says it all. Short story, one of those pieces that are completely pointless. But I hope some of you will crack a smile for me. R&R please!


_**A/N: **This is one of those little pieces I like to write every now and then, one that doesn't really make any sense, and usually has no point but to amuse people like myself, with a strong sense for the ridiculous.  
This is in fact a translation from a German text I wrote a couple of years ago, but I lost the original. So either I find it some day, and will upload it for those of you who speak my native tongue, or I will re-translate from the English. You'll find out, or not. Maybe you'll just as well learn that the Pyramids of Tacklefick are discovered in Urugly._

**Title:** A Letter to Snape  
**Author:** zan189  
**Rating:** K

**Disclaimer:  
**None of the events depicted are stolen from actual situations.  
The character of Professor Snape belongs to Joanne K. Rowling, but I don't own money with this, so go figure.

**ooOoo**

_**Dear Professor Snape,**_

I think you have been quite unfair when I dropped that little bottle of wine during detention. I know that most likely you will just take off another twenty points of my house; still I _need_ to write this letter. It is my explanation of the events.

When you caught me the other night, stealing myself into the castle, I was coming back from an alcohol-filled night in the "Seven Saucers" in Hogsmeade. If you please, I had at least fourteen glasses of butterbeer, and – I think – one bottle of firewhiskey. It might have been two, my memory faded with every new drink. The three rounds of schnapps on the house, especially, had it in them – if you take my meaning. So you might be able to understand that I was in an advanced state of drunkenness whilst sneaking down the hallway to the Potions classroom. I really did not mean any harm; I simply had this silly idea of using my cauldron to prepare potato soup. You can't imagine how much I miss my mum's potato soup. And well, nobody else but me will be able to make one just like it, at least not around here, in Hogwarts.

Dear Professor Snape, it is not my fault that you had confiscated my cauldron two weeks before when I tried to bring in some Christmas flair with hot wine in the hallways… so naturally I had to go and get my cauldron from your office.

I openly admit that if I had not smoked pot after leaving the bar I'm sure I wouldn't have smashed that statue right in front of your classroom. But I'm truly sorry this happened – it must have been very dear to you, knowing that it had been there for a thousand years or so, impersonating the first Potions Master of Hogwarts who developed the basics of potion-making you teach us now. And yes, I also admit that no damage would have been done had I not tried to make up her boring face. But it is _quite_ hard to do magic when you are drunken as hell! And it can't have been _that_ bad, knowing that when the spell backfired it hit Mrs. Norris and turned her into a charming young – well – wercat. At least Mr. Filch is happy for his wonderful wife, and he cannot cease to thank me enough.

Anyway, you didn't even wake up when the statue exploded! Only _after_ I had broken into your office to get my cauldron was it that you opened your black eyes. By the way: did you enjoy the soup I made? I know it left you in the hospital wing for two days, but hey! Who expects an ethanol-ised seventeen-year-old to know the difference between a toadstool and a mushroom? Was it _my_ fault you left the poisonous stuff on the vegetable board just next to my cauldron?

Oh, please don't think I mean to accuse you… I'm merely trying to set things straight, just as they happened, you know! You see, without fire, there won't be any soup. At least not hot one! Can you ever accept my apologies for burning down the little library you used to keep next to your office? Just look at it that way: if it wasn't for the couple of hundred books it might have been a lot earlier that the curtains draped around your bed caught fire. And maybe, in this scenario, you wouldn't have had time to free yourself from the ropes with which I had tied you to your bed. Believe me; fettering you wouldn't have been necessary if you didn't _always_ take so many points off of my house… I could _not_ take any risks! All my friends hardly talk to me anymore, since _I_ am the reason that we are in last place this year.

Oh well, I guess it didn't help. I should have known! You came free and took – what? five hundred points? FIVE HUNDRED! That's a lot. And then you even chased me out of the office and sneaked yourself _my_ soup. Serves you right you got poisoned, thank you very much!

My house's prefect said the five hundred points are nothing compared to the mass detention you put on all my house earlier this year, when someone cut your hair and dyed what was left pale blond. That was me, by the way, so you might want to apologise to all the other students of my house.

But I'm fine, do not worry, my friends forgive me, just like friends ought to.

Back to the red string of this letter, which is actually the bottle of red wine I dropped:

I'm sorry it's the only thing left to you by your late mother. Yet do understand, considering my remarks about the night previous to my (deserved) detention, that you should have counted on my drunkenness to do _some_ sort of damage. I mean… you had proof enough of how far it can go, so why poke sleeping dogs? Instead, you forced me to help you clean up the mess in your chambers.

For _once_ try and put yourself in the position of the student:

There you are, with a major hangover, and an old, wrinkled professor makes you clean up his office. Naturally you feel sick enough to puke all over the place and contribute to the average odour. But you keep yourself in check and – breathing heavily, but deeply – you take one tiny step after the other. You move burned furniture; you sweep the floor; you dust the shelves from ashes; you put all broken glass and melted metal into a pile; all this without magic, of course! It is supposed to be your detention! And then one, just _one_ intact bottle slips from your fingers, hits the wooden floor, and breaks into pieces. The liquid spills all over and burns wholes into the floor, so that the Headmaster himself has to bend over and fix it. How would _I_ know you inherited a bottle of the infamous Undrinkable Wine from your deceased mother? You should have told me _before_ you sent me into your bedroom for something to drink. The little bottle on the candle-lit shrine happened to be the first thing that caught my eye. For the future: it might not be a bad idea to mark things as what they are! You know, there's this wonderful thing called _labelling_. It's so easy to write down the name of a thing. But no! smart Professor Snape tries himself in the fine arts, scribbling an ugly skull with two crossed bones on the tag. What's that do!

Well… still I feel the urge to honestly apologise, taking on all the blame. So please dismount your high horse and let me out of this _freaking_ dark cell of yours! I haven't had anything but dry bread and shallow water since I was locked in. There's _no_ light except that single ray of sunshine two hours at noontime. No company, nothing to do… it took me two months to carve this letter into the walls with my fingernails!

Couldn't you put in a good word for me with Professor Dumbledore? After all, his beard will re-grow, and Hogwarts' left wing will soon be build up again!

With much hopes for a speedy release,

_Sincerely yours  
__O'Rera Perturbatio_


End file.
